


Kintsugi For The Soul

by FaunaProductions



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Lots of Angst, Suicidal Thoughts, ill add tags as i update this lmao, sex work in a negative way
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26556475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaunaProductions/pseuds/FaunaProductions
Summary: Erik has a mad idea, and he decides he wants to make it a reality, no matter the money or obstacles involved.Meg is, was, and always will be the daughter of a ruthless ballet mistress, and so she helps out however she can...
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Meg Giry
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. A Mad Idea

"I'm creating a park," Erik announces when he returns home one evening, after disappearing for several days.

Meg slowly looks over at him from where she's sitting at the table, reading a book. "A what?"

"I've been to Coney Island," he answers, discarding his long coat and fedora near the door.

"Put it on the hook, you animal," she says, before adding, "What's on Coney that's got you so fired up?"

He rolls his eyes but does as she says, grabbing his hat and coat from the bench to instead hang it on the coat rack. "Steeplechase Park," he answers, smoothing back his wig as he walks to the table, draping his suit jacket on the back of a chair before sitting across from Meg. "I know I can do better."

"So, this is your new dream, is it?" she asks, amusement in her tone as she props her chin on her hand. "I wouldn't have guessed you would decide a park would be your thing."

"I can make automatons like nothing they've ever seen," he says, and it seems to be more to himself than her as he grabs his notebook from his jacket pocket and begins flipping through to find a blank page.

She catches a glimpse of some portrait studies on several pages and thinks for a moment that most of them look like her.

She mentally rolls her eyes at herself. Of course they would be of her, it's not like he had anyone else always around to draw—except her mother, she supposes.

She leans forward to get a look at what he's scribbling.

"Do your plans extend beyond simply 'wow them with automatons'?" she asks, tilting her head.

"I always plan ahead," he replies, "I'll compose songs too, to be performed on my stages."

She hums, once again propping her elbow on the table and resting her chin in her hand. "Do I have a place in these plans?"

He actually scoffs at that—oh, the audacity of men!—but then he nods. "Of course."

Before she can squeeze any more information out of him, he stands, gathering his things, then disappears into his room.

She sighs, returning to her book.

She finds quite quickly that her eyes can't focus on the words when her mind keeps drifting back to what he said.

She stares at his closed door, half hoping he might simply appear and explain himself, but knowing that in reality he is hunched over at his desk, scribbling down plans and designs and concepts.

She shakes her head, standing from the table.

She goes to her bedroom, where her mother is at her own desk, doing what Meg assumes to be budgeting for the household.

Maman looks at her as she enters. "Is something bothering you, dear?"

"Ugh, men," is all Meg says, before throwing herself into bed.

After three days of not seeing Erik at all, Meg finally gets him to leave his room by taking his notebook while his back is turned.

"No!" she tells him, all but running across the apartment as she tucks the notebook into her bodice. "You will get it back once you take care of yourself."

Erik fumes silently, towering over her. "Remove my notebook from your bodice, woman."

"You can remove it yourself," she says, tucking her arms behind her back and raising her chin in defiance.

He glances down at her chest before quickly averting his eyes. His cheeks are flushed beneath his days-old makeup.

"Now, will you eat?" she asks, gesturing to the meal already laid out on the table.

He sighs but sits down. "I do not need this treatment."

"You're just a man," she reminds him, pouring a glass of water for him. "You require the same things any man does to stay alive."

He huffs, and she can't help but think his expression looks like a pouting child.

"Mademoiselle, you are a menace to my creative process," he informs her, crossing his arms.

"Monsieur," she shoots back, narrowing her eyes at him, "your creative process is a menace to your wellbeing."

He glares at her for a moment before opting to instead glare at the bowl in front of him, as though it had committed some atrocity against him. "What is this?"

"Porridge," she answers, sitting across from him.

He makes a face. "And if I will not eat this porridge?"

"Well then, sir," she says, leaning forward in her chair. "I will be keeping your notebook in my underclothes and you will not see a single page of it."

He grumbles something she can't understand—she assumes it must be a Persian curse, perhaps that she might drop dead and he might be allowed to retrieve his notebook—nevertheless, he begins eating the sweetened, boiled grains.

Several minutes into the silent meal, Erik glances up, then at the empty seat at the table, and then does a quick scan of the apartment.

"Maman has been out since early morning," Meg offers by way of explanation, stirring her porridge with her spoon. "I’d assumed it was something for you."

"Oh," he says, looking down into his bowl again.

"Was it not?" she asks because he isn’t offering anything else, and she never allows him to get off that easily.

"No, it is," he replies, slinking down in his chair.

She rolls her eyes. "What task have you assigned my mother?"

"Oh, I’m having her find out what it might cost to procure the land on Coney," he answers, his long fingers tapping against the table. "May I have my notebook, mademoiselle?"

"Finish your porridge," she tells him, then kicks his ankle under the table. "And sit up straight."

He scoffs as he pulls himself up in the chair again. "You need friends, mademoiselle," he says with an irritated sneer, "So much time with your mother has you speaking like her."

The second kick is much sharper and elicits a yelp from the masked man.

"It is not  _ my _ fault we are thousands of miles from home, away from the friends I did have," she says simply, returning to her porridge.

That makes him fall silent again and he finishes the meal without another word.

She collects the dishes and walks over to put them in the kitchen.

When she returns, he stands and wordlessly holds out his hand.

"Not yet," she says, and he looks furious. "You are taking a nap."

"I shall not!" he growls, fingers curling into fists.

She rolls her eyes at him again. "Stop acting like a child and take a damn nap." She squints at him with pursed lips. "Wash your face first, that makeup has been caked on for days."

After much more argument, and Meg physically dragging him to the sink, his face is cleaned—he mutters another Persian curse at this, telling her that she should never have made him do such a thing while she was still in his presence, to which she replies that she did not make him remove his mask and he should be grateful for that—and he is forced into bed.

"You must stay there for at least two hours," she informs him, sitting in his desk chair with a book in hand. "Without complaints."

"What are  _ you _ doing?" he asks, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Ensuring you stay there," she says, opening her book and flipping to where she’s marked the page. "Now be quiet, or I shall have to insist on  _ three _ hours."

He begrudgingly lays down as she ignores his glares.

His exhaustion wins over in the end, and he’s asleep before half an hour has passed.

Meg listens to his calm breathing and enjoys the rest of her book.


	2. Boxed Thoughts Running Wild

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik does not think about feelings.  
> Or perhaps he does.

Erik does not think about why he could not simply take his notebook from Meg's bodice, when he could have easily slipped it from any woman's garter belt without being ruffled in the slightest.

He does not think about how he felt flustered at the implication she made that he was welcome to retrieve it.

Of course he doesn't, there is no reason to.

It is warm from her own body heat when he—finally,  _ finally _ !—gets it back from her, and he seems to lose the ability to use his fingers as it tumbles from them to the floor.

She raises an eyebrow at him, and he hurriedly picks it up, muttering something that neither of them are quite sure are words, and shoos her from his room.

He's alone in his room now, sitting at his desk with his notebook clutched in his hands.

Perhaps he  _ does _ think of the things he'd rather not. He thinks about why Meg has him reacting like this, when he does not even turn his head when passing the ladies of the night who are dressed in far less than his little ballerina— _ his _ ballerina? When had she become  _ his _ ? A foolish thought, one to be tucked away into a corner of his mind to think about later, perhaps, when he has more time to dwell on such things, or to never again acknowledge, which was also a more than reasonable thing to do.

He ponders his original question.

This is something like his feelings for Christine, isn't it?

No, not really. Not  _ quite _ . But almost.

What is similar to love? Overpowering love which fills your every sense, such as what he feels— _ felt _ ? When had it become past tense?—for Christine?

What might be similar to that, but less overwhelming? Friendship?

No, he does not have  _ friends _ , but even he knows that isn't correct. That cannot be what this is.

He had that night with Christine, beneath a moonless sky when she could not see his horrid face to flee from him—it seems so long ago now, but perhaps it made him more aware of a woman's body?

Even in his twisted mind, with his own warped perspective of the world, that does not sit right. Surely then, by his own reasoning, those ladies of the night might entice him more.

There's  _ something _ there, in what little heart he might have, for Meg, he's absolutely sure of it, but he cannot put a name to the feeling—or perhaps he's afraid to.

Perhaps he doesn't want to think about what it might be that makes his cheeks warm and his heart stop at the thought of reclaiming his notebook from where it was tucked into such an intimate place.

Perhaps he simply cannot admit to himself that what he feels might be something more, something different, something…  _ special _ .

He draws a small square on one corner of the page and puts an M in it, boxing the thoughts away for reviewing later.

He's boxed ideas and concepts this way for years. He neatly packs them away until he can find time to deal with the things that have little to no relation to his projects. It's one of the small ways he organizes the chaos which lives inside his head.

For now he has more important things to focus on, such as where to put his grand stage—oh, should there be a turning mechanism in the center to move set pieces and dancers around? Separate moving parts? He writes a quick note—or what attractions he might set up in his park.

It's perhaps a day or two later—he's not sure, really, he hasn't moved from his desk at all, but he is aware that Meg has brought food and drink at least twice.

He glances over to see a tray with a meal sitting on the floor beside the door. So at least three times then.

His mask has long since been discarded to the bed, along with his coat and his vest, and he isn't even sure where he kicked his shoes to.

He's been working on the same mechanism design for a long time, long enough to swap his writing hand twice already—he knows what it needs to  _ do _ , he simply can't put onto paper  _ how _ to do it.

He lets out an irritated growl as he puts the pencil down to keep himself from throwing it across the room, or perhaps stabbing it into something, and with a thud, his face is planted right into the center of the page—a well-known gesture of every creative that ever sharpened a stick and tried to scratch lines into the dirt.

_ How convenient it can be _ , he thinks with more annoyance than amusement,  _ to lack a nose _ . His face can be pressed all the way against the paper full of stupid ideas from a twisted mind, so close that his eyelashes brush the damned scribbles when he blinks.

It's in this position, his face buried in the worst ideas to come from his warped mind, and quite without warning, that Meg has escaped her little box on the previous page and is running through his mind as if she owns it, golden hair chasing her movements with a glowing halo from the sunlight, her silhouette so unique that he would know it from a glimpse.

He doesn't have to wonder if he'd know her across the bustling crowds of New York City, he has spotted her, and watched—having no idea he was smiling like a child on Christmas morning, about to receive the present they begged their parents to buy, or perhaps a puppy, like he felt all the joy that exists in the world in that moment—and come back later to peek into the store window she was standing at, her hand gently pressed to the glass.

He knows immediately what grabbed her attention, it's her favorite color.

For a long moment, nothing exists but silk that is the perfect blue-green of the ocean on a cloudless summer day. He knows she loves that color, she always wants to run her fingers across whatever she's spotted in that particular shade.

He considers for the briefest of moments that he could purchase a shirt of that color—even a full suit—but he quickly scoffs at the idea, and does not dwell on why he wants her to trail her fingers down his chest.

She loves that color so much, loves the way it catches one's eye, loves the way it reminds her of calm waters on the ocean, loves-

He finally remembers to take a breath and  _ oh _ , so that's how she escaped the box so easily. She was never properly in it to begin with.

He does have a sense of smell, albeit not a very good one; however, at eyelash distance from the pages, even he cannot miss that the scent of her perfume (one of very few items brought from Paris, the bottle nearly empty, rarely worn to save what's left of that small part of home) has seeped into the paper.

He lifts his head after a moment, flips to the previous page, and erases box and 'M' both.

Very slowly, he turns to the page he'd been working on, then one more still. On the right of this blank spread of pages, he writes the M again. It gets an underline, so it has a place to live among his pages, but no box—clearly that doesn't work, so there is no reason to try again to contain it.

He's glad and he doesn't know why.


	3. Beach Fun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik and Meg have fun in the sand.

It takes about a month for Erik to finish his plans for Phantasma—"allowing for changes during building," he adds, with a matter-of-fact nod—and Meg isn't sure where he, and her mother, found the money to buy the space on Coney Island—the odd jobs the three of them picked up weren't exactly well-paying—but now here they are, on the newly purchased space where a park will soon be built.

She watches Erik from a distance as he discusses plans with the construction crew. Maman is over there too, collecting information on what permits they'll need so she can sort that side of things out.

Meg, on the other hand, has found a spot on the beach where she can listen to the ocean while still having a clear view of what's happening.

She has already abandoned her shoes, and even her stockings, near where they are talking and now she is relishing the feeling of the sand beneath her feet.

She holds her dress up so she doesn't get sand on it, and slowly walks up and down the beach.

She can just make out Erik's face as he talks to the foreman, and she has fun imagining the conversation.

"The mask stays on at all times," she says, in a deep voice, sounding as morose as she possibly can, "I have a horrid face which I must conceal from the world, lest I be shunned."

For the foreman's reply, her voice is not quite as deep as her impression of Erik, and now she's also affecting an American accent. "But, sir, I should know the man in charge of my crew."

She watches Erik shake his head, and decides to voice his side of the conversation, "Unfortunately, sir, that will not be possible, for I am cursed to never be known by any person, because I am too childish and angry to make friends."

She's laughing now, and she  _ just _ misses seeing Erik catch sight of her, and the smile that flashes across his face.

"Monsieur," Madame Giry grabs his attention again, her tone something like she might be scolding a child, and he becomes the stoic shadow he always is. "He asked you a question."

"Ah, apologies," Erik—Mr. Y now, to this foreman—says, folding his hands behind his back. "If you might repeat yourself."

"I need to know when you want my boys to be done with this," the foreman—a man named Clifton Miller, who goes by Cliff—says, a friendly smile on his face.

"By next summer," he answers with a short nod.

"It's a big project, sir," Cliff says slowly, but his smile remains. "I may need to bring in more men if you need it up in just a year."

"Do what you like, Monsieur Miller," Erik says, waving his hand in dismissal. "So long as it is done."

"Where are you going?" Madame Giry demands as he strolls away.

"I will return," he replies, rolling his eyes as he knows she can't see him do so.

Meg kicks up some sand, twisting and twirling her skirt.

"Enjoying the beach?" he asks, arms folded behind his back.

"Oh, yes," she replies, grinning up at him. "You look severely out of place."

He considers his dark clothing, and his long cloak, and he shrugs. "I suppose."

"How are things going over there?" she asks, continuing her walk down the beach.

"Your mother needs to sort out some building permits," he answers, strolling along behind her. "Then we can get underway with the construction."

She gasps suddenly, practically falling to her knees.

His eyes widen, and he isn't really sure what to do with his hands, but they hover over her nonetheless. "Are you alright, have you harmed yourself?"

"It's a seashell," she says, which catches him entirely off-guard.

She stands with the shell in her hand, showing it to him. It's chipped and broken, but she seems very happy with her find, which Erik finds oddly endearing—not that he will be sharing that with her.

She continues walking, turning the shell over in her hand, examining every angle.

"You now have sand on your dress," he says, keeping his pace just behind her.

She twirls around, walking backward now. "You're right, I do, but you know what else?"

He raises an eyebrow, and he doesn't realize until a moment too late she's standing just on the edge of the waves washing up on the shore, and when she kicks her foot, water splashes against his pants.

"You are a child," he says, but there is definitely a smile on his face—of course, his smiles look almost like grimaces, but she's learned to tell the difference.

She laughs, and blows a kiss at him with a wink, then she kicks up more water and sand, the bottom of her skirts getting wet.

He chuckles as he steps back. "My dear," he isn't sure why he chooses to address her as such, but the words tumble from his mouth before he can do much to stop them, "I do believe this is unladylike."

"Perhaps," she answers, and her next kick of water barely misses his shoe. "However, I'm enjoying myself, you should try it,  _ my dear _ ."

Her words are a joke, and he's not sure why his cheeks feel warm, or maybe he simply doesn't want to dwell on it and come up with the answer.

"Oh, I'm enjoying watching you," he says instead, then he has to stop himself from rolling his eyes—what an absolutely _ ridiculous _ thing to say!

He clears his throat. "I must get back and discuss plans with Monsieur Miller and your mother."

"Fine, don't join me in the water," she says, crossing her arms. The pouting only lasts a moment before she giggles. "I'll be…" she glances down the beach, then points at the rocks on the opposite end from Erik's new project, "over there, if you need me."

He inclines his head and strolls away as she looks for more shells along the water.

By the end of the day, Madame Giry has a list of permits to obtain, Monsieur Miller has a list of demands to meet, Meg has a collection of seashells, and Erik has one more thought tucked away for later that has something to do with an odd newfound appreciation for the beach.


	4. Manners, Opinions... New Job.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg makes herself useful to Erik.

Meg watches the men move around, building the structures that will eventually be part of Phantasma. In two weeks, they've already made some progress—not as much as Erik would like them to have made, but they're only human, and his shouting does not speed them up.

Speaking of that irritating man, he is hunched over plans. He scribbles, shakes his head, and scribbles some more.

It looks like nonsense to her, but so long as he and the construction crew can read them, she figures it doesn't really matter.

She doesn't do much on the building site, mainly she brings Erik food and drink which he ignores because he's too wrapped up in whatever he's working on.

Still, she brings him tea and a sandwich, and sets them on the table he's using.

"Damn it, woman!" he growls, slamming his fist onto the table, causing everything sitting on it to shake, and she jumps. "Not on my workspace, get this away!"

She straightens up then, pursing her lips as she glares up at him. "Monsieur, I would thank you to be kinder," she says, crossing her arms. "You can move it yourself if you are going to act like a child, and while you're at it, you may as well eat it."

He glares back at her for a moment before his expression softens. "My apologies, Mademoiselle Giry, I simply have no time for lunch."

"The men have a break for lunch every day," she says, waving her arm at the park in general. "It won't kill you to take one too."

"I beg to differ," he says, turning back to his plans.

She grabs his arm. "Then beg."

He starts with a bewildered look, yanking his arm away.

"You are eating," she says, and her expression could rival her mother's glare reserved only for the worst of the ballet rats, "You've no say in this."

Despite her very clearly stating that he has no choice, he still tries to argue. "Mademoiselle-"

"You may be larger than me," she interrupts him, "but I  _ will _ use force, if necessary."

He does not doubt that is true, so he finally relents.

As he eats, she decides to give him some advice, "If you didn't spend so long yelling at the men, they would be able to work faster."

"On the contrary," he says around a mouthful of his sandwich, "I give them the motivation to work faster."

"You've no manners, don't speak with food in your mouth," she scolds before returning to their original topic, "You take too much time out of your day to tell them what they've done  _ wrong _ for you to ever take notice of what they've done  _ right _ ."

This time his mouth is clear of food as he replies, "What they've done right is not my concern, what they've done wrong  _ is _ ."

She rolls her eyes. "Just try praising them and keeping your temper for once, you may find that your way of doing things is entirely unnecessary."

“Thank you, Mademoiselle, for your opinion,” he says, scoffing, “Even though I did not ask for it.”

She hits his arm. “I’ll see you later, you insufferable old fool.”

Despite her words, there’s a fondness to her tone, it seems more like a comfortable nickname between close friends, rather than a biting insult.

His eyebrows knit together as he looks at her, a frown tugging at his lips. “Where are you going?” he asks, because even though they had been arguing mere moments before, he still finds he doesn’t want her to leave.

“Maman had one of the men deliver a message just before I forced you to take a break,” she explains with a shrug, “Apparently, she needs to speak to me about something.”

“Ah,” he says, then adds, “Well, I will see you at home, I suppose.”

She curtsies, and then places a very quick kiss on his cheek, and happily walks away while a certain masked man is suddenly feeling very warm underneath his heavy makeup, and he is going to go right back to his notes and designs so he can forget about how he almost wishes her soft lips would be placed on his cheek again, and again, and again.

Meg finds Maman at what will someday be the entrance to Phantasma.

“Did that man really take so long to locate you?” Maman asks, one eyebrow raised with that familiar, unimpressed expression.

“No,” Meg answers, “I made sure Erik ate before I came to meet you.”

Maman tsks, shaking her head. “You must learn to leave him alone, Meg, he is busy.”

“And I’m making sure he doesn’t work himself to death,” she replies, folding her hands in front of herself. “I assume you called me for a reason unrelated to interrupting  _ the master’s _ ”—this has a roll of her eyes accompanying it—“work.”

“We need permits for several of the attractions,” she says, handing a folded piece of paper to Meg. “However, the man is a bit of an ass and does not want to give them to us, and he has no need for money, no matter how much I offer.”

“There’s a dress shop not far from here,” Meg says immediately, because she doesn’t even need to ask—she’s the daughter of a ruthless ballet mistress, after all—nodding toward the street. “I’m sure they’ve got something in my size.”

“Good girl,” Maman praises, patting Meg’s cheek.

Meg’s eyes flit over the information on the paper before she tucks it into her bodice. “I can go see him tomorrow afternoon.”

Her voice is steady, her expression indifferent, and she already decided weeks ago she would help Erik with this mad dream of his. She can play the part of the ballet rat she’s always been.


	5. Mademoiselle Meg Has A Tumble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg misses French.

Two months. Two full months where she is in someone else's bed. Every.  _ Single _ .  **_Day_ ** .

Harsh New York accents muttering the most horrible things play in her mind, over, and over, and over, and-

She thought it would only be once. Or she hoped it would be, anyway.

But the park needs a thousand little things to become a reality, and she has no doubt she will see a thousand beds, a thousand men, a thousand-

She shakes her head, as though that might clear it of any thoughts. She's doing this,  _ all of this _ , for him. He can't build his park without those permits, and forms, and permissions.

She thinks that might be enough to keep her going. As a ballet rat, there was no…  _ point _ to it that she saw, except entertainment. But here, she sees him working so hard to get the park finished, and she decides she  _ has _ to do this.

With every English word she hears, she misses French more. Erik never speaks French anymore—he doesn't even have a trace of his accent left—and her mother seems to have followed suit, and Meg just wishes someone would be willing to talk to her, normally, in  _ her _ language.

She pushes her thoughts away, collecting the plate of food and the cup of tea she's prepared for him.

It's become a routine. She makes him take a break and eat, he complains with some quick quips, she responds in turn.

Over the months, it's changed, and she hates that. He'll eat without putting up too much of a fight—usually, though sometimes she has to pull him away from his drawings, or threaten him with something worse, but his remarks are made while his eyes are focused on the park, or his little notebook, or anything that  _ isn't _ her and says his mind has wandered away from the conversation and the company, and his replies are practically automatic responses one might expect from one of his machines.

Still, she tries. What else can she do?

When she approaches, he's hunched so far over the table, she can't help but tease, "Will you be able to straighten up, old man?"

He scoffs as she puts the plate and cup down, moving away from his table to retrieve a ruler from a nearby work bench.

When he turns to step back to his designs-in-progress, he growls, " _ Woman _ , you are staining-"

But whatever else he says, she doesn't hear, because that sharp " _ woman _ " in that horrible New York accent, in that voice that she  _ knows _ is Erik but her mind can't accept as such, just sends a spike of fear down her spine, her stomach clenching into knots, and she can't focus because the only thing she can hear is her pulse thudding in her ears. All the sounds around her are drowned out by that  _ thud, thud, thud _ -

"Mademoi-  _ Meg _ ! Meg, are you alright?"

It's like stepping into the shade and taking a deep breath of the cool, fresh air, a voice she knows as well as her own, speaking in the language she can actually think in.

His hands are on her arms, gripping her like she might tumble over at any moment and he doesn't want that to happen, and he's looking at her with that confused, wary expression that she always thinks of as 'I need a dictionary for translating Humanity to Erik', but he's finally looking at her again, and there's some small semblance of  _ care _ in the way his wide eyes search her face for some kind of explanation.

"Of course… Only, it is so hot and muggy here," she replies—in French, because this is a tiny straw she can grasp at, and she will not let it go.

His eyes narrow, clearly he knows she's lying, wonders what to do with it, doesn't know, lets it drop— _ this _ is why Meg has to do what she does; everything in Erik's mind can be read on his face.

He's a tyrant sometimes, but he's an open book, he doesn't hide his feelings—he just doesn't know what they are.

His hands move from her arms, and he hesitates a moment before asking, "Split the sandwich with me, Meg?" Still in French—so familiar, so badly missed—and it's his wonderful, charming,  _ real _ accent instead of the snobby Parisian accent he affected as the famed Opera Ghost.

She smiles, nods, and they eat lunch together. He watches her like she's a completely baffling specimen he needs to study and understand—to him, she is, she decides with a small smile, an odd delight in the realization—and she puts on the act of an unaffected woman who's lived a grand, happy life, full of nothing but smiles and laughter.


	6. This Erik

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg has known Erik long enough now, she knows the kind of man he is, and the kind of man he's been.

Meg's life is… okay.

For about two weeks.

Because for two weeks, Erik's soft French surrounds her like a warm blanket in between the cold nights filled with New York English.

His quips are replaced with asking how she is—she lies, of course, but he says nothing about this—and even telling her that her new dress or her hair looks nice, in his own way—less a simple compliment, he's always done it in a more roundabout way, but it's  _ genuine _ , and that's enough for her.

More than once his hands find a place on her shoulder, or arm, or—once, just the once, and he looked like he regretted it a moment later, and really, why wouldn't he?—her cheek, a very gentle brush over her cheek as he asks why she has a bruise—you can only hide so much under makeup—and she leans into the touch very slightly as she tells him she tripped and hit a table on the way down. He tells her she is allowed to confide in him, she needn't be afraid of him, and she laughs.

"I'm not afraid of you," she says, "I really am okay."

But fate plays funny tricks on people. Just when everything is okay—not good, not fine, but  _ okay _ —the universe has ways of breaking down your tower of hopes for the future, leaving you in the crumbling wreckage.

The workload on Erik has doubled, and Meg doesn't know all the details—"No need to worry," he'd told her dismissively—but she can see the tired expression, focused as ever but exhausted, and he barely says two words to her when she makes him break for lunch.

But that's fine. She doesn't care that she's doing all the talking now, she's used to that—it was the same during their time on the ship from France to America, and many times since then.

She can handle the one-sided conversations.

What she  _ can't _ handle, however, is the crazed animal of a man he becomes under stress.

Maman comes home one afternoon, her face white as a sheet.

"Maman, are you alright?" Meg asks, abandoning her makeup brush on the vanity, her bruises only half-covered but that's as much as she'll manage—she finds she misses the more senior of the ballet rats, they would know the trick to this.

"Do not go to the construction site by yourself," Maman says, gripping Meg's wrist so tight she thinks she may be cutting off circulation. "Don't go alone, Meg, do you understand?"

Meg nods hurriedly, and she would have said "Yes, ma'am," even if she was dead, because she  _ knows _ that tone. "Maman, my wrist… What's wrong at the construction site, is Erik alri-"

The sharp look is answer enough. Meg knows now that for all those years, when Maman came home with that expression, it's because he scared her.

No. No, Meg doesn't like the tone of her own thoughts, and they are one of the very few things she can control, so she corrects herself: the Opera Ghost scared her.

Erik  _ wouldn't _ … Well, he must have, but… Not  _ this _ Erik, not anymore, he would  _ never _ … She had just been with him earlier that day, and he hadn't said a word to her, but he smiled— _ smiled _ ! A real, genuine, wonderfully atypical smile!—at her as she told him the park was really starting to come together.

She stands from the vanity, giving up entirely on the bruise. The green dress has a higher neckline than the pink she wears now. That will work.

Maman won't even let Meg tag along with her to the construction site over the next two days.

Unfortunately for both of them, however, Meg is hardheaded, and she knows she's the only one looking out for Erik, and he won't eat unless he's either about to send himself to the grave or he's pulled away by an outsider.

So finally, despite her assurances to Maman, Meg does go to the construction site alone.

When she arrives, Erik is hard at work, drawing then erasing then drawing some more, barking orders at passing workers, eyes darting around as he looks for imperfections in the buildings or designs.

She waits patiently for him to stop yelling at the men, and once he's back to working on his designs, she approaches.

"Erik, it's time to take a break," she tells him, which is met with no acknowledgment, only the sound of a pencil scribbling.

She huffs, grabbing his arm. "Erik-"

" _ Don't touch me _ !"

She doesn't even register what happened for a moment. She's on the ground, and she's staring up at a man who is staring back at her with… confusion, distress,  _ fear _ in his eyes, and-

"You hit me," she realizes finally, a dull ache starting in her chest, "Erik, you  _ hit _ me."

"I-I didn't mean to," he says quickly, but when he reaches toward her, she crawls backward, away from him. "Meg…"

She pushes herself up, ignoring the sting of tears in her eyes as she brushes dirt off her dress. "Monsieur Y, I will be taking my leave."

"Meg, please," he says, his hand extended to her like he expects her to… What, take his hand? Let him touch her again? Allow him to even be that close to her?

Some little voice in her mind tells her he really didn't mean it, but men always do, don't they? She has enough bruises to show that's just the way things are.

So she squares her shoulders, sets her jaw, and walks away.

She walks, and she walks, and she walks until her feet are sore and she isn't even sure where she is.

Maman was right, as always, and Meg just wishes they could all go back to before this damned idea of a park even made its way into Erik's mind. She misses the three of them in the apartment, eating together, or talking, or-

She remembers one day when Maman had stepped out for errands, leaving Meg and Erik alone in the apartment.

He'd been stuck on this one song for three days, and he was frustrated to the point of throwing his things around his room, and she decided it was time for him to stop.

She went straight into his room without knocking, and she didn't even flinch when a book made contact with the wall right beside her head.

"Leave this," she told him, offering her hand. "You can come back to it later."

He watched her for a moment, his expression softening, then he took her hand, allowing her to drag him out to the small living room.

A month prior, Erik had purchased a phonograph. (He had produced a significant amount of francs from his coat that she did not know he had, which he then converted into U.S. dollars so that he might buy the phonograph he'd been eyeing for such a long time. She still does not know how, or why, he hid that much money only to use it on… something that plays music, which is not even an instrument.)

Meg doesn't remember which song she set to play, it doesn't matter really, but she took his hand and placed it on her own waist, then she took his other hand and they danced around the room.

They danced until the song ended, and then they danced some more.

Eventually, it was less  _ dancing _ and more swaying gently, pressed against one another.

She laid her head against his chest, and his hands settled on her back, and she felt safe in his arms.

_ That _ is why she has to keep up this way of living. She wants  _ that _ Erik back, and the only way he'll come back is if the park is built.

So she'll square her shoulders, she'll wear that dress that squeezes her uncomfortably to show off her figure, and she won't complain when she comes home with bruises.


	7. Dreams...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik has dreams, some are foolish... And he knows this. But who cares anyway?

Erik barely eats, and he doesn't sleep because when he does—if even for a moment—he just sees wide,  _ terrified _ blue eyes, and a face he knows far too well with an expression that should never find a home there.

He throws himself even further into his work. If he had double the workload before, it's tripled now. It's all he can do to try to keep that image out of his head.

He doesn't often speak to the workers, mainly he hands revisions to the foreman with an instruction to do it right the first time and don't complain if something goes wrong, just  _ fix it _ .

He notices—with an oddly sharp pain in his chest, a feeling he can't  _ quite _ place, something he doesn't have a name for—that Meg is not hanging around the construction site like she used to, and any time she  _ is _ there, she's standing close to her mother and the most she offers him is a brief glance in his direction paired with a tight-lipped smile.

He's aware of the sandwiches that appear periodically on his work table, usually while he's stepped away for a moment to check one thing or another, and his stomach twists into knots like he might be sick, but he can't figure out why.

He stops paying attention to them then. He blocks out everything but his work.

The world at large could not stop him now.

If he were clever (which he is, "Too clever for your own good," Meg used to tease, and the smile he remembers only morphs into that terrified expression and he leans closer to the paper like he might focus harder on that), and if he had a better sense of humor (a concept he's never seemed to grasp, but Meg would laugh at his dry comments, and the sound was music to his ears and soul), he might have made a joke about an unstoppable genius and an impossible goal.

Although, now, as he draws a design for his grand stage, he isn't sure what that impossible goal is.

His park will be built, it will even be built in under a year if everything goes according to plan. It isn't unobtainable.

He has no hopeless desire, nothing he wants but can't reach. He's had them in the past, perhaps—dreams of an unmarred face, dreams of a real,  _ happy _ family, dreams of a normal life…

But he's older now, and wiser, and he knows those are simply things he won't have. He accepts that now.

So, why then, does he feel there was something he isn't quite-  _ damn _ , when had he drawn her?

On the stage in his grand design stood a woman with long hair and a simple dress.

He let out a growl of frustration, knocking everything off the table, sending papers, drawing utensils, and notebooks to the ground.

He slumped against the table, burying his face in his hands with a groan.

_ He'd hit Meg _ .

She has shown him so much mercy and he'd repaid her how? Anger, violence, sometimes even contempt.

Meg has always been something he doesn't understand.

He knows the  _ world _ , he knows  _ fate _ , and he knows  _ people _ . Every person he's met has been so painfully predictable, it only takes the fun out of anything he might plan.

_ Of course _ people were horrified by his face and lashed out because of it,  _ of course _ the new managers ignored his demands until he killed someone,  _ of course _ that insufferable Vicomte brought in armed gendarmes.

People are so easy to know, easy to figure out, easy to pick apart and put back together. They aren't as complicated as they think, they aren't unique, they're all the same.

Very few have held his attention for long. Christine did. At first, because she was a shock of talent and inspiration, an unexpected bolt of lightning in his otherwise unremarkable cloudy day. After that, she held his attention with her kindness, a thing he had not been shown in his life before she appeared, she showed him that humanity doesn't  _ have _ to be terrible, they simply  _ chose _ to be.

He has been surprised by very few things after his childhood was so abruptly ended and he was taught about the real world.

He hadn't expected Christine to unmask him, that first time or the last, though perhaps he should have, perhaps that was a foolish miscalculation. He had revealed he was simply a man, revealed his true colors, he was not the angel he'd led her to believe him to be, and she was a curious, and scared, child, so really, why would she  _ not _ ?

He did not expect Christine to kiss him. Choose him to save the Vicomte? Possibly. But to kiss him,  _ willingly _ ,  **_twice_ ** ? That was not what he expected.

He will always remember the electricity of her voice, he will always remember the feeling of her gentle hands lingering on his face, but always— _ always _ —the last thing he will remember about her is that, at that very last moment, he understood her compassion and that meant letting her and that boy go.

But Christine was, in most cases, as predictable as any other person. She was kinder than most, yes, but she was no different, really.

Meg, though? Meg is a collection of contradictory elements.

He has known her for as long as he has known the Paris Opera, for as long as he was there, she was too.

A handful of facts are all he needed to know about her, or any other human being:

Name. Meg, Marguerite if the ballet mistress is angry, sometimes paired with her surname, Giry. It's the first thing he learned about her, because the ballet mistress shouted it rather often. Later, the name was matched to the person, the smallest of the ballet rats. Blonde, truly tiny. Talented dancer. Some idiot refused to train her voice in the correct range.

He didn't think of Meg Giry often, or much at all really. He noticed she was the first to welcome new chorus members, an unofficial ambassador who seemed to be liked by all; he vaguely remembers the day she took Christine under her wing—an ironic turn of phrase, given that Christine was at least a year older and a head and a half taller.

The next time he remembers Meg Giry, he's accepted that he will bleed to death, here in the dark, and the rats will eat well- ah, someone has crawled in after him. Hopefully, they have a pistol and the kindness and decency to shoot something that is so clearly mortally wounded, in soul if not in body.

Meg did not have a gun, but she bound his arm with a scarf—ending all thoughts of his previous plan, unfortunately—and promised she would be back.

And she comes back. Perhaps he shouldn't have been surprised, she'd never been one to be dishonest from what he observed, but he stares at her like she's this strange creature he's never seen before. He still watches her the same way.

She hated him. Now, that he  _ did  _ expect. Fury rolls off her in waves, but her hands are gentle as she wipes off blood and grit. When she speaks to him, which is initially as seldom as she can manage, her tone is laced with contempt, but when she looks at him, which is surprisingly often, her eyes are puzzled, sad, uncertain, soft.

It's… interesting, he decides. Each time she speaks to him (cold), and then looks at him (warm?), he puts off his resolve to slip away and slam the book of his life. He keeps writing just one more sentence. "Why does she keep trying to get me to eat?" and "Why does she stay someplace she hates and say that I am why?" The sentences become chapters, but the questions never seem to find their answers.

Meg... Meg, he still doesn't understand. So many years with her and still, she baffles him.

Perhaps he likes that about her, or perhaps it frustrates him to no end, or perhaps he just wants her to be just like other people; predictable, uncomplicated, the same.

He thinks of her as a puzzle, or perhaps one of his little mechanisms. If he can just fit the pieces together, it will all make sense.  _ She _ will make sense.

No, a puzzle, not a mechanism. She's a puzzle. His mechanisms, those he can understand. He designs them, he knows what to do to put the pieces together. She is a puzzle cut into an irregular shape, every time he thinks he's found two pieces that fit together, he learns that he's wrong.

But... this is the Meg he has, and somehow he thinks he prefers this Meg to any other Meg that could exist.

The Meg he  _ had _ , he corrects himself, and he finally moves his hands from his face. He doesn't have any Meg now, not his teasing ballerina who hid his notebook in her bodice, not his laughing girl on the beach who kicked up sand and water, not his infuriatingly irregular puzzle who has so many contradicting pieces.

He looks at the papers on the ground, and the girl on his stage is smiling up at him. He purses his lips, kneeling down on one knee.

He slowly collects notebooks, drawing utensils, designs. He very carefully places them back on his workspace.

He grabs an eraser, and he removes the girl from his stage.

A needless distraction, the design is what needs to be focused on. He can hand this off to his foreman, and his stage can be built, and that's what he needs.

He shouldn't have allowed his thoughts to run so free, it pulled him away from his work. He has buildings to design, construction to check.

Who cares if she isn't willing to talk to him? That's hardly new for him. She'd spoken to him far more often than he expects from anyone. She's reached her limit now, he thinks with a nod to himself, as though that makes it more solid somehow. She just had a higher breaking point than most others.

Who cares if she's hardly willing to look at him? With  _ his _ face, he's surprised she stayed with him after the first time she saw him unmasked. His so-called family hadn't, he can't really blame her for finally seeing through the veil and realizing she's better off away from him. She's right in that regard, for sure. He's better off without ties to anyone, they're not worth it, they never are.

Who cares about little Meg Giry anyway?


	8. Winter In New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meg misses Paris more than ever.

By the first sign of snow, Meg misses Parisian winters, a return of the same feelings that resurface every winter here. New York is not France, and it shows in many ways, but perhaps especially in the seasons.

She's still working to keep Erik's dream alive, but she's tiring quickly, and she hates everything she has to do, and she hates his park, and she hates him- no, she doesn't hate him. Herself? Yes, she hates herself, she hates that she lets herself do these things, she hates that she thinks this might be met with some kind of appreciation from that damned man, but she still can't seem to hate him. She should.

But he's the kind of cold she would welcome. His skin feels like ice, but his touch fills her soul with warmth. His gaze goes from a heavy hail to a soft snowfall when it lands on her.

New York winters are harsh, and he can be too, but she would rather weather his cold personality than the frostbite in the air.

Erik, at least, will go be frosty somewhere else; winter in New York wants to come inside and sit down with you and never leave and it's awful.

He even has very rare moments of warmth, like a soft blanket wrapped around her that might keep the chill of the world at bay. She could probably face anything if she knew his arms were there, just waiting to embrace her.

She's heard talk of falling in love, but she thinks that falling in love with Erik is something a bit more literal, like falling out of a tree, and hitting… Every. Single. Branch. On the way down.

It's the first time she's really acknowledged it, that she actually loves him. Or perhaps she's just lonely. Or perhaps he's simply the lesser of all the evils in New York City.

She thinks it must be love because otherwise she is a fool for doing what she does. She knows he doesn't feel the same, of  _ course _ he doesn't. If he did, well, she wouldn't be in this mess, would she?

He's ruining her life.

Does he know?

She's been staring silently into her bowl of untouched soup for a long time, searching for answers among the carrots, she realizes as she finally looks away, opting to stare at the wall ahead of her instead.

Erik is not here. He never is anymore.

"Maman," her voice is barely above a whisper, certainly wavering despite her attempts to level it. "This is madness, he doesn't know or care. I don't know if I can do this anymore."

"He's not a complete fool," Maman says, shaking her head as she gently places her hand on Meg's arm. "He knows you're helping, and he appreciates it… In his own way."

So he  _ does _ know. He knows exactly what she's doing, and who she's doing it with. What must he think?

Ah, that's right.  _ Nothing _ . She's a ballet rat, men know what those are for, don't they?

He probably expected this of her, this is how she can make herself… useful, after all. And she is  _ very _ useful, without her he wouldn't have his park already so far along. He wouldn't have his park at all, actually.

Clearly, that doesn't matter to him. She doubts  _ she _ matters to him.

A knock on the door pulls her from her thoughts and she slowly stands from the table. "I'll answer it, Mother."

She opens the door with a smile she's sure looks exhausted. At least  _ that's _ the truth. "Yes?"

"Er, hello, miss- uh, er, Mrs. Y?" one of the two men asks, and she doesn't have the energy or the focus to correct him, because she's staring at the third—mostly?—unconscious man supported between them. "This is the address we have for him, and, er, well, he fell off some scaffolding."

There are a dozen things she wants to ask as she carefully touches his cheek, her eyebrows knitting together.  _ Why was he climbing scaffolding _ ?  _ Why was he out while it was snowing _ ?  _ Why is his face hot to the touch _ ?  _ Has he been sick _ ? But the question that actually makes it out of her mouth is, "Did anyone remove his mask?"

She knows it shouldn't be the first thing she asks, but damn it all, she knows it matters to  _ him _ , and for some unfathomable reason, that means it matters to her too.

Of course, she does expect the surprised glance between the workers, which they exchange very quickly before actually answering her question.

"Er, no, ma'am," the second man speaks up, "He's a damn menace to work for, if you don't mind me sayin' so, but he's got our respect."

"Good," she says, and finally moves away from the door to lead them into his bedroom.

"Apologies for the mess," she sighs as she steps across the things Erik left scattered about, picking up another dozen things from his bed so that he can actually be laid down. "And apologies for the man."

Once Erik is in bed, the men leave, though not without being offered a cup of tea, or something to eat, which they thank the Girys for but do not accept.

"Good luck, ma'am, an' watch y'self if he comes to, still hits like the Devil himself," one of them is sure to tell Meg before he goes as he fixes his coat tighter around himself and pulls his hat on. "Damn near broke Bill's wrist, he did."

"Thank you for bringing him home," she says softly, closing the door behind them.

She sits herself back at the table, laying her forehead against the wood with a sigh.

She can guess what happened. She's sure he refused to take care of himself, he was out inspecting some work when he was already sick, and now, well, he's laying in his bed.

She thinks it might be funny that it took him nearly working himself to death to bring him home—well, except that she can't really find any amusement in that. There's surely something to say about how if your life is nothing but work then you'll find yourself in an early grave. If only she could remind him of that fact.

The days creep by. Maman goes to the construction site daily to get updates while Meg stays home to care for Erik.

Is it wishful thinking to hope that when he wakes he'll realize he's killing himself and slow down?

Probably.

The fever eases up enough that he's finally lucid enough to hold a conversation after nearly a week.

"What day is it?" he asks as the doctor collects his things.

"Monday, you've been out since Wednesday," Meg answers, then she adds, "It's good to see you're feeling better."

"Monday?!" he sits up quickly, tossing his bedsheets off. He sways slightly and places his hand against his temple. "Damn it, I've lost too much time, I should be working-"

"Forgive me, sir, but you should  _ not _ be working for quite some time yet," the doctor interrupts him, pursing his lips. "You will need another week,  _ at the very least _ , to regain your strength, and then you may be able to have short trips outside, weather permitting."

Erik tells the doctor to go to hell in very graphic terms, reminding Meg of the very worst of the stagehands at the Opera House, his swearing some mix of English and French words—which Meg finds interesting, given his downright refusal to use French. The doctor listens politely, makes a few notes, and then writes down the contact information for the Manhattan State Hospital and gives it to Maman.

At her raised eyebrow, he clarifies, "It is a hospital for the insane."

Meg sighs, and shakes her head. "Thank you, doctor, but he's… fine."

"If you say so, ma'am," he says, heading toward the door. "Goodbye, send for me if I am needed."

Maman escorts him out and Meg stays in the bedroom with Erik, who is eerily silent.

He fancies himself a complicated, impenetrable machine no one else can understand. Meg does not need any knowledge in machinery to see how his gears are grinding improperly before finally stuttering to a halt. A complex machine, yes, but one she knows well, even when she does not understand the individual parts, she understands the whole.

He's been called a madman, that's what has his gears stopped as though a wrench were quite rudely thrown into them. It's happened plenty of times—Meg herself has called him such when he gets an especially absurd idea—but clearly this time has slipped between his ribs.

Perhaps it's to do with  _ who _ said he's insane. Superstitious people—particularly ones Erik might call 'uneducated peasants' should he feel the need to speak of them at all—well, they're scared of the most trivial magic tricks. She's heard many stories about his days in the carnival; make a coin disappear, suddenly you're a minion of Satan.

She doesn't even need to consider what it is about the doctor saying such a thing that got under Erik's skin, she realizes with a small frown and her eyebrows pinched together, because Erik himself is muttering about it.

"Painfully polite, stupid little man with his little glasses," he growls so softly she almost has to strain to hear. "No remarks about the mask, very modern in his sensibilities, thoroughly educated in his opinion, and that opinion is…" 

"You're not," Meg speaks up, before he can even say those final words, " _ You _ know you're not insane,  _ I _ know you're not insane, please just lay back down and get some sleep."

Erik won't even look at her. She is pleading with him and he has fixed his gaze away from her. She's trying to  _ help _ him! Does he believe himself to be so far superior to her now, because of all that she's done  _ for him _ , that he can't even look at her?

"Shut up, Meg," he says, and she can't even process it before he continues, "What do  _ you _ know about madness, about  _ anything _ ? If you sat alone with that man for five minutes, he'd have you convinced it would be entirely for my own good that I be taken away in a straitjacket."

She wishes he'd hit her again in a fit of mindless rage, completely unaware of his own actions until it was too late. That was so much easier than this.

This… This is calculated. He's mad at the world, she knows, but she's… convenient. She's the one he can so easily throw away if she's broken, like a toy or a mug. He may very briefly regret dropping it from so very high, but he can clean up the pieces and replace it.

But Meg takes it like a prizefighter, she knows he doesn't care, he never did, it was ridiculous to think that maybe those shared moments  _ meant _ something—the long talks, the dancing, the softness in his gaze when he looked at her but-

"Good night," she says, and she takes her leave.

Erik clearly does not need her anymore. She can slip away quietly, away from her worries and her cares and the broken pieces of what was once the grand life of a ballet dancer at the Paris Opera House.

Her mother will miss her, she supposes, but she's made of steel, she'll be fine. Maman will shed a few tears when she reads of the news, but she'll keep on going, as she always has.

"Meg, are you going somewhere?" Maman calls just as she reaches the door. "It is almost dark already and I don't like the look of those clouds."

Meg smiles. "Just for a short walk."

"Take your coat, my dear," Maman tsks, her usual frown set into her face. "You'll catch your death out there."

"Don't worry, Maman," Meg laughs softly, shaking her head. "I won't be needing it."

Maman looks skeptical but does not stop her from leaving.

"Goodbye, Maman," Meg says as she closes the door behind her.

The sea is so kind in a world so cruel.


	9. The Beach, And I'll Tell You Why...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik has a bad feeling...

Erik is laying in bed, a splitting headache threatening to put an end to any and all ideas he may have, now or ever again.

He groans as he presses his forearm firmly over his eyes, his chest aching in a way even he cannot quite put into words—it hurts from his coughing fits, the illness he's managed to pick up, but it hurts in another way too; in a way that, for some forsaken reason, brings soft golden locks and gentle blue eyes to the forefront of his mind.

She'd left him to stew alone in his room more than an hour ago, and he isn't sure why she hasn't come back. He thinks that perhaps the headache, which appeared almost immediately after she walked out, might go away if she were to come check on him, sit with him maybe. She could read to him, or  _ sing _ -

He scoffs, sitting up then immediately regretting it as his vision swims. He is not a child. He has no need for such silly fantasies dancing in his mind.

He reaches for his notebook—thankfully she allowed him at least that—and he finds that little M, free from its box, free as a bird.

He presses his face to the pages, inhaling deeply.

Oh. The scent is gone.

… Where had  _ she _ gone?

She would usually be back by now, to check on his health, if not to scold him for his behavior.

He gets out of bed, despite his body demanding at least three more days without moving, and only stumbles a bit as he makes his way out of his room.

Ah, the older Giry is sitting at the table—what is she doing? Writing letters? He doesn't care, actually, he needs only one thing from her. "Where is Meg?"

She looks up at him, looks back down to finish writing a sentence, and back to him. "She went for a walk, she should be back soon."

A walk.

A walk? She must have left almost immediately after he'd…

It's dark. She still hasn't returned?

He goes back into his room, dressing quickly—a trip through town in pajamas, at this hour, in this weather? That  _ is  _ a sure way to the mental hospital. But he is adept at quick getaways, he is dressed in two minutes easily, he just  _ needs _ to go now.

He isn't sure what has his gut twisted so horribly tight, but it has taken hold of him and he needs to find her.

He grabs his long coat and strolls out the front door without Madame Giry sparing him so much as a glance.

He's barely out the door before his stroll becomes a sprint, long legs carrying him as fast as they can take him to the beach. He prays to whatever god might be listening that he's right about where she is—it feels all wrong,  _ everything _ feels wrong, and he needs to make it there before something happens. There are miles of shoreline, but just a few spots she's partial to, and she has one place, he's pretty sure, that is special to her.

_ Finally _ , he sees her silhouette in the distance, standing on the rocks, watching the waves.

_ Oh, thank you, whoever listened _ , he thinks, his pace slowing.  _ She's fine, I'm a fool, she will always be the grounded one- is she wet? _

He's close enough now, he can see how her dress clings to her skin where the wind does not push it away, her hair dancing around her head, and her shoes are nowhere in sight.

He is… horrified. It's February—the park  _ must _ be done before summer, it absolutely  _ must _ —and she's been  _ swimming _ ?

She looks around as he approaches and he freezes, his eyes locking on the gun in her hand. He knew Madame Giry acquired a gun—something about protection, a precaution, just in case—but he has no idea when Meg took it, has she been keeping it for a time? Or did she grab it on her way out, after he'd snapped at her?

His chest aches more, though whether it is his illness, the physical exertion, or heartbreak, he really is not sure. All of them, perhaps.

"Meg, what a day for a swim," he says, as lightly and gently as his terror will allow, "You must be cold."

"Oh, no," she says, "I'm very warm." When she smiles, her lips are blue. "It cleared my head, everything makes sense now."

"Meg, no, you need to come down from there." He moves toward her slowly, his hand outstretched, and his voice now has the slightest tremble. "Give me the gun, Meg."

Her hand moves up, the barrel resting against her temple and he falls to his knees beside the cluster of rocks.

"Please," his voice cracks as he reaches out, slowly and carefully. "Just give me all of your pain, but give me the gun,  _ please _ ."

"So dramatic," she says, and she seems amused by this display in front of her. "Silly Erik."

Her smile drops slowly, then her arm, and she sways before collapsing against him. He grabs the gun quickly, one arm steadying Meg as he shoots the bullet in the chamber away from them, into the ocean.

She flinches and he presses his lips to her head as he tucks the gun into his pocket. "I'm sorry," he mutters against her hair, holding her close. "I'm so sorry."

He gently helps her sit up on her own so he can take off his long coat, wrapping it around her shoulders—she's  _ tiny _ , and  _ soaked _ , and  _ so fragile _ , and her eyes are so empty, and he has never seen her look so broken.

"We're going home, okay?" he says softly, helping her to her feet, his hands firmly on her shoulders to steady her.

He pulls the coat tighter around her, and she numbly holds onto the offered cloth, her eyes fixed on the sand beneath their feet.

"I don't have my shoes," she mumbles, leaning against his shoulder. "Don't know where they went."

"We'll find them later, okay?" he says, moving slowly away from the rocks and away from the waves. "I'll come back in the morning and look for them."

"I have to walk barefoot back home?" she asks, then mumbles something that is entirely unintelligible.

"No, you don't," he says, stopping to carefully pick her up, one arm under her knees, the other wrapped around her back. He makes sure his coat is providing what little warmth it might be able to. "See? You aren't walking barefoot."

She lays her head against his shoulder. "Y'do care," she says, lightly patting his chest. "Big softie."

He purses his lips and continues in his stride. 

She's shivering now, in horrible violent fits.

He'll have to get the doctor to see her, if he's even going to come over so late at a madman's request.

He prays that he will.

Is it too much to ask for his second prayer to be answered as well?


	10. Pomegranate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erik is helping.  
> Probably.

Erik has decided his place is right beside Meg's bed as she rests. When she shifts at all, he gently tucks the blanket in around her, and at the slightest sound, he watches her attentively.

This would be fine, if he did not act like a dog who felt the need to protect a tiny creature it is taking care of, be it pup or otherwise.

Madame Giry brings a glass of water for Meg once she wakes up and Erik will not allow her near enough to help her daughter drink it, so instead she purses her lips, hands the cup to him, and lets him do it.

"How do you feel?" he asks as he places the glass on the bedside table once he decides she is sufficiently hydrated.

"I'm alive," she says, which he does not feel is a proper answer, but he can't say anything because she continues, "Why aren't  _ you _ in bed?"

"I'm  _ helping _ ," he tuts, crossing his arms.

She laughs, and he thinks it's good she feels strong enough to do so. "I doubt that," she says, a fond smile on her face.

She reaches for his hand and though he's surprised, he doesn't pull away from the touch.

"You look tired," she tells him softly, and there's genuine concern in her eyes. "You should rest."

He shakes his head and rests his other hand on top of hers. "Not until you're well again."

The look on her face… He's good at reading her, when she lets him. Meg is a woman with a fiery heart and her face tells him many things. She is damn good at hiding whatever she pleases, something he has come to despise because he missed such an obvious problem, but when she doesn't, there's so much she tells him without uttering a single word.

First, she says 'You're an idiot' with her face—eyebrows raised, eyes slightly narrowed, lips quirked in the smallest of frowns—but then she says… 'Please just stop'—her eyebrows have pinched together now, her eyes have softened, her frown has deepened, almost a pout—and then something else… Something he doesn't know, like trying to read a language he doesn't understand—eyes cast downward, no longer on him but on their hands, her frown now sad rather than displeased.

He wonders if he's done something wrong.

She pulls her hand away, turning her head to the side. "Go lay down, Erik, I'll still be here later."

"Mademoiselle," he says softly, and he wants to reach out and hold her, but he doesn't—she's made it clear she does not want him to touch her. "I really mean no offense, but I do not know that for sure."

"I'd like a little  _ trust  _ from you," she snaps, then shakes her head. "You know Maman will not be letting me out of the house alone."

She looks upset… He did that. Again.

He wants her to understand he only said that because he cares, he wants her to know he's a fool for letting it get as bad as it did, that if he could turn back time he would just to embrace her, to tell her that he only wants to protect her, to cherish her.

"Rest well, Mademoiselle," he says instead as he stands, lingering only a moment more before taking his leave.

Erik only stays away as long as Meg is awake, and then he's right back beside her bed, sick himself but more focused on getting her better.

It's only a couple of days before she's nearly back to herself again—something Erik would insist is due to his watchful eye—and she's already scolding him for overworking himself while he's already ill.

"Mademoiselle," he says without even looking up as she walks into his room, "I am nearly done, if you would allow me another minute."

She hums, moving past his desk to sit on his bed. "What are you doing?"

"Working," he answers, and he can feel her unimpressed gaze, so he adds, "I'm designing set pieces—a grand stage with a talented star requires an impressive set."

She hums again. "When will you be hiring performers—like this imagined star of yours?"

He looks at her, and he is sure that his bewilderment and shock shows on his face because she looks amused.

"Mademoiselle," he says slowly and clearly, so he knows she will be able to understand. "My star is not imagined at all, she is already picked out and has the job—er, if she accepts it, of course."

Meg scowls at him then, which he certainly did not expect, and her tone is harsh as she says, "If you think you will contact Christine-"

"What?" his question interrupts her, and her furious expression relaxes to one of complete confusion. "My little songbird—" he cannot believe he just called her that, "—I've no intention of contacting her."

He doesn't?

_ Hm _ , he thinks, _ A discussion for another time _ .

"Then…" Meg trails off before blinking at him, pointing to herself. "Me?"

"I certainly do not mean your mother," he says dryly as he props his elbow on the desk, leaning his head against his hand. "I told you months ago you had a place in my plans."

"I thought…" she trails off, looking down.

He watches the frown creep onto her face and he thinks that it is something he never wants to see.

This is a woman he wants to protect from the harshness he's endured from the world, he wants to keep her in the light that burns a creature of darkness so terribly that it might only want to retreat back below into its lair.

"Of course…" he says with a soft teasing tone, "If you do not want the position…"

That gets her to look at him. Good.

She raises an eyebrow. "Monsieur, do you really think I would give up the opportunity to tell you how your theater is to be run?"

He tries in vain to keep a smile off his face. "Mademoiselle, I will be in charge of that."

"That's what you believe  _ now _ ," her grin seems to light up the entire room, "We'll see if you still feel the same in a year's time."

"Ah, sweet Persephone, you harm your dear Hades!" The words slip out before he can even catch himself, and he almost tries to backtrack but-

She's laughing. Why does his chest ache when her laugh rings through the air like the sweetest melody he has ever heard?

He is certainly staring until she says, "I'm afraid I've eaten the pomegranate and so you are quite stuck with me!"

Perhaps the aching in his chest had been from his illness because a moment later, he has a coughing fit, doubling over as it seems his lungs are trying to escape his body.

He isn't even aware Meg left the room until she returns with a glass of water just as he is starting to catch his breath again.

"My dear Hades, King of the Underworld," she says as she places the glass on the desk, and he is very aware of her hand caressing his cheek, and she is so close he can see every shade of blue in her eyes, swirling together like a whirlpool of beauty and emotion. "I urge you to take a break—perhaps join me above for a breath of fresh air, away from the worries of life below."

He leans into the touch, hesitantly placing his hand over her own. She smells familiar, and her skin is warm against his cheek, and he is overwhelmed by feelings he can't name.

"Erik, are you crying?" she asks, and her other hand gently takes hold of his mask, and-

She waits. She has her hand on the porcelain, but makes no move to take it off of his face. A silent question, she wants him to tell her she may remove it—or tell her she may not.

He nods, just barely, but she sees the movement and carefully removes the mask, placing it on the desk.

She doesn't even react to his uncovered face, and she's gentle as she wipes the tears from his eyes.

Meg smiles as she kneels in front of his chair, resting her arms across his knees. "So, Hades, will you let yourself get better and stay with me in the sun?"

He is silent as he considers his answer. He wants to say yes, truly he does, but a monster such as himself…

Surely, the sun will only burn, and her kindness will only twist into hate.

"Please leave, Mademoiselle." He wants her to stay. "I would appreciate time for quiescence." He's going to go right back to work. "The sun will shine again tomorrow, perhaps ask then." He knows his answer will be the same.

Judging by her expression, so does she.

But she nods and stands as he replaces his mask over his face, and the look she gives him as she starts toward the door says… 'I'm sorry'.

He is once again alone, and he never minds being able to focus on his work, but this time… This time, he's staring at the paper, but he isn't doing anything because instead, he's just thinking of Meg.

His hand brushes across his cheek where she'd touched him.

And he decides perhaps he should rest, if only to stare at the ceiling and contemplate what might happen if he were to accept Meg's outstretched hand, to follow her into the light.

But he will be staying in the darkness, where he is alone but  _ safe _ .


	11. Mrs. Y

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments they'd rather not discuss.  
> A conversation they should have had months ago.

It's nearly a month from the time Erik fell before he has shaken off his illness. If someone twisted his arm, he might admit that overworking himself did not help him recover, but otherwise, he would insist the amount of work he puts into his project is entirely necessary.

Now that he and Meg are both well again, Maman is not needed to keep such a close eye on them—"You clearly needed the supervision," Maman tells Meg when she points out that they are fully grown adults, perfectly capable of caring for themselves—and she leaves them alone at the apartment so she can complete some much needed errands.

Meg and Erik sit on the couch in silence, each with a cup of tea on the table that neither have touched.

Erik had slowly shuffled out of his room for the first time in two days and said nothing at all when offered a warm drink, but Meg prepared it anyway and sat with him.

She's shifted closer to him, at first just to look over at the notes he's scribbling in his little book, but then she leans against his shoulder—she's not entirely sure if it's madness or foolishness that has her doing so.

He tenses but says nothing, and he carefully places his book to the side. She is slightly surprised at his arm moving around her—not quite  _ holding _ her, just resting behind her—but she certainly doesn't mind.

It's another few minutes before Meg speaks up, finally breaking the comfortable silence, "Thank you."

"Whatever for?" There's an edge of amusement to his tone and she rolls her eyes.

"You're insufferable," she says, gently elbowing him. "You know what," is her proper answer.

She could swear that he has just pressed the gentlest kiss to her hair, but  _ surely _ not.

"Do you need to talk about it?" he asks, before she can even consider saying anything.

She laughs, though the sound that reaches their ears is hollow. "I'd really rather not."

"Then we won't," he says, and leaves it at that.

It's sometime after they are no longer leaning against each other and Maman has returned, and now, Erik is seated at his desk, staring at his notebook, while Meg lays in her bed, staring at the ceiling.

He thinks of the unexpected but surprisingly welcome warmth of her against his side. She thinks of his lips just barely brushing the top of her head.

And if he spends the night drawing a certain golden haired woman, that is between him and the pages of his little book.

And if she falls asleep imagining how it would be to kiss him properly, that is between her and the shadows in the corners of her room.

Neither says a word about it again, not to each other,  _ certainly  _ not to Maman, not the day after, nor the next.

Time seems to fly by. It becomes days, then weeks, then months of this.

They have spent so many nights up much too late, speaking softly so as to not wake Maman. They dance in the living room again, getting use out of that phonograph, upbeat or slow waltzes or anything in between, whatever they feel like—Meg loves the times when their slow dances become nothing but swaying very slightly, her head resting on his chest, which are becoming more and more frequent. They often sit in silence, perhaps close enough to just barely touch the other's side if Maman is there, tucked together if she isn't.

Meg isn't sure why, but she feels this should be kept from Maman. She's the happiest she's been since… Well, since some time before the Phantom began to coach her best friend.

She can hear Maman clearly now, "My dear Meg, do not get your heart broken by a madman."

She knows this imagined version of her mother is right. She shouldn't get so close, he surely doesn't feel the same.

She has known she has loved him for a long time—and she almost wishes those feelings would fade, but they have firmly planted themselves in her heart.

She doesn't dare say anything to him, not yet, but… She can be allowed the soft moments with him, in between moments of venom where he says or does something that has them back to cold silence and irritated glares for another few days.

It's during an icy period when he suddenly disappears for nearly two weeks—not an unexpected or uncommon occurrence, but an irritating one, especially when Meg is already angry with him—and when he returns, he announces he has hired several acts already, and plenty of workers and stagehands, as the park is nearly finished.

He also, Meg notes, has a tiny creature in his pocket which mewls quite pitifully when he removes it from his coat.

"Erik," she says slowly, eyebrows raised. "Have you brought home a kitten?"

"An incredible observation, my dear," he says dryly, moving to stalk through the kitchen in search of something to feed it. "It ended up beneath the hooves of a carriage horse."

"Oh, the poor darling!" Meg exclaims, then she frowns at him as she adds, "I'm surprised to see you of all people decided to take care of it."

He turns to look at her then and she isn't quite sure what the pity on his face is for until he speaks, "I have a soft spot for tiny, broken things."

Ah. That's it. He's thinking of that night on the beach.

He has a soft spot for things like her.

She remembers the man she found below the opera house, barely even a person. She has to wonder if that's what he saw when she stood on the edge.

"What are you naming it?" she asks instead, a distraction from her own thoughts.

He's silent for a long moment before answering, "Let us see if it survives the night before we call it anything."

"I think it will be just fine in your hands," she says softly, then she moves over to him, nudging him out of the way to get to the drawer behind him. "There's a pipette in here somewhere," she informs him, sifting through the contents of the drawer. "It might be useful to get the little thing to drink something."

He nods as she finally finds what she's searching for. "The kitten and the pipette are both fragile, be gentle."

"Mademoiselle, I've the hands of a pianist," he says, accepting the offered glass dropper. "I must be acutely aware of the weight put into every little movement."

_ Could stand to be more gentle with human beings then _ , she thinks with a quirk of her eyebrow, but aloud, she only says, "Good. Think about names for the little guy, hm?"

She turns to start toward her bedroom. "I've an idea for a bed for it," she says over her shoulder, "Give me a moment."

It's impossible to be angry at the man for disappearing when he's so gentle with such a small creature.

She takes the basket from her bedside table, emptying it of the sewing materials she's been using it to store. More than enough space for the kitten, at least until it grows a bit more, and she folds a small blanket to provide it with something soft to lay on.

She stops when she hears quiet French and listens through the open door to Erik muttering to the kitten, declarations of undying love and devotion and promises of unending servitude, if it will only accept a small amount of nourishment.

She nearly laughs until she hears the next words out of his mouth, "Mademoiselle Giry is like you and I, no?" he asks the cat, and there's a long pause before he adds, "I think you two will get along well."

She only stands still a moment more before stepping out of her room with the basket, walking past him to place it on the kitchen counter. "You can keep this in your room for it."

He nods and very carefully places the kitten on the blanket.

"Thank you, Meg," she says for him, lowering her voice as she mimics him as well as she can. "This is so wonderful, Meg. You're the greatest, Meg."

He picks the basket up, and he watches her for a moment, uncertainty clear on his face.

"Er," he pauses, and she isn't quite sure what to expect from him because the uncertainty only grows and he shifts his hold on the basket three times before he finally continues, "Thank you, Mademoiselle."

She's not sure what he had planned to say, because judging by his expression that definitely was not it, but he disappears into his bedroom too quickly for her to ask.

Now, when she tucks herself against his side on the couch, there is a tiny kitten in his lap, joining them for these moments.

Soon enough, the little darling is able to walk short distances and sometimes it shifts from Erik's lap to Meg's.

Eventually, they figure out the cat is a girl, and she's eating and drinking well on her own, but she still goes with Erik to work every day.

Meg hears a stagehand talking to his friend, "That cat is the woman for Mr. Y."

"Mrs. Y, eh?" his friend snickers.

She's not sure when Erik starts picking up on this talk through his park, but the first time he refers to the cat as Mrs. Y, she cannot stop herself from laughing.

"Mademoiselle, do you have a problem with something?" he asks, and he looks like he's irritated but she can read him well enough to see the amusement in his eyes and the tiniest upturn of his lips.

"Oh no, I quite like it," Meg says, fighting to keep the grin off her face and ultimately failing to do so. "I believe the only question is what does Mrs. Y think of it?"

The cat in question looks entirely unbothered from her perch on Erik's shoulder but she does purr when Meg reaches up to pet her. "Hm, sounds like she approves."

He chuckles warmly and Meg's grin relaxes to a soft smile at the sound. She appreciates the moments when he's relaxed enough to freely act like himself.

"I believe the two of you have work to do," she says, "Don't stay too late tonight, hm?"

She places a quick kiss on Mrs. Y's head—who meets it with an affectionate trill—and then one to Erik's uncovered cheek.

"Yes, we must be going," he says, clearly flustered as he turns quickly. "Good day, Mademoiselle."

She watches him go, amused even despite her aching heart.

She knows already it's wishful thinking to hope he might feel the same, but nevertheless she will try to speak to him when he returns home.

Luckily, she's still awake when he's finally finished with his work for the day—she suspects he would stay longer if not for Mrs. Y, who can sleep anywhere she likes but he tries to keep her comfortable, and she's absolutely pampered at home—and she wordlessly gestures to the seat across from herself at the table.

He stands there, considering her offer, only taking a moment to open the door to his room and places Mrs. Y down before he sits.

"Mademoiselle," he greets Meg softly, folding his hands on the table.

"I'm not going to stall at all," she says, before she can lose her nerve. "I think you've been ignoring the elephant in the room."

"Er, okay?" he frowns, eyebrow quirked in confusion. "Pray tell, Mademoiselle, what elephant are you referring to?"

"I do not dare make any assumptions, Monsieur," she says, pursing her lips. "But I believe if you are somehow blind to my affections, you are more foolish than I could have assumed."

He stands abruptly. "My apologies, I must make sure Mrs. Y has settled in."

She doesn't even try to stop him from retreating to his bedroom.

It's the confirmation she expected anyway. He doesn't feel the same way.

She decides she will let the matter be. No more cuddling up to him on the couch, no more swaying in his arms, no more late night talks that feel almost too intimate.

No more.


End file.
